


Keep on Fighting in the Meantime

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blow Jobs, But they work things out, Consent Issues, Explicit Sexual Content, Face-Fucking, Frottage, Irresponsible Decisions, It's a Little Fucked Up, M/M, Manhandling, Morally Dubious Washington, Power Imbalance, Rough Sex, Unsafe Sex, okay more than a little
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-09-28 07:31:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10079573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: Fighting is safe. Fighting is just words, and words can be taken back. All the violent, roiling, shaking passion of a good fuck without the consequences.Or the satisfaction.





	

It doesn't matter what they're fighting about.

That's the problem: it honestly _doesn't fucking matter_. They're burning so hot lately, circling each other warily. Always a little too close. Always right on the verge of burning the entire office building down around their ears. Fighting not just because they disagree, but because it's the only thing they _can_ do when they're this tightly wound.

Fighting is safe. Fighting is just words, and words can be taken back. All the violent, roiling, shaking passion of a good fuck without the consequences.

Or the satisfaction.

Hamilton hates it. But he's helpless to break them out of this holding pattern. There's nothing he can do that won't put Washington in an impossible position, that won't ruin what little equilibrium they have.

He thinks, sometimes, that if he pushed… If he _offered outright_ , Washington might fuck him. Might reel him in by his tie and finally put Alexander on his back where he belongs. Or maybe put him on his knees. Take them past this stalemate and give him what he craves.

But Hamilton doesn't dare, because what if he's wrong? Washington is always so careful. So Appropriate. It's hard to imagine the two of them getting under each other's skin this way if Washington _doesn't_ want him, but Hamilton has years of experience proving that his own judgment is fallible at best. What if he offers, and Washington decides to send him away instead? It's his law firm, and there are plenty of positions he could shunt Alexander off to that aren't technically a demotion. Hell, he's been Washington's office manager for almost three years. He was overqualified when he first took the job, and he's damn good at it. He's long overdue for a promotion.

Which means he can't take the chance Washington would make the responsible choice—the smart choice—and get HR involved. Cocksure and impulsive as Hamilton is, he's not stupid. If he wants to keep Washington close, he's got no choice but to play it safe. Behave himself. The stakes are too high to entertain any other alternative.

It's still a struggle to remind himself of discretion in moments like this, just the two of them, voices raised in the otherwise eerie quiet of Washington's office. Everyone else went home hours ago, when the work day actually ended. There's no one left in the building to overhear the unprofessional shouting match unfolding on the top floor.

"I _did not_ expand your authority so that you could lay off senior employees without consulting me." Washington's normally smooth voice sounds almost menacing, loud and quick and clipped with anger.

Hamilton knows better than to fear his boss. He knows Washington's temper, slow burning and volatile, and he's not going to back down before it. Fuck it, Hamilton is angry too. He doesn't deserve to be dressed down for doing what needed to be done.

"Charles Lee was a liability." The words come out high and frayed with feeling. "He needed to go!"

" _You_ don't get to make that call!" Washington thunders. He moves forward, crowding into Alexander's personal space, intimidation in a way Hamilton has only caught fleeting glimpses of before.

Hamilton retreats without meaning to, an instinctive backward step that reclaims some of his personal space. For the first time tonight he finds himself wondering if maybe he _is_ out of line. He's never seen Washington quite this angry—quite this menacing—quite so stormy and threatening.

No.

No, Hamilton can feel in his gut that he's right, and he lets that certainty ring hard in his voice. "Well I fucking _did_." He honestly doesn't know if Lee is a snake or just incompetent. Either way, the man is gone now and Alexander isn't sorry.

Washington's eyes harden and he takes another step forward, long stride carrying him so close Hamilton has to tilt his head back to maintain defiant eye contact.

He knows he's only winding Washington up, but he can't seem to stop.

"This is _my firm_. You work for _me_."

" _Yes_ ," Hamilton snaps. "You're the boss. So fucking act like it! Lee needed to be dealt with, and you _weren't handling it_. Someone had to step up."

Washington's eyes flash with a bright, fresh wave of rage, and once again Alexander falls back without meaning to. He's not scared of Washington. He's genuinely not. He's seen enough of his boss's temper to know that Washington would never hit him. But he can't prevent the purely biological instinct to retreat in the face of the signals Washington is giving off, the size and strength closing in on him.

He startles when his spine hits the wall, but Washington follows, looming so close Alexander can feel body heat through the thin fabric of his shirt. He's flushing hot even though he's long since discarded his jacket and tie for the day, rolled up his sleeves hours ago. He's on fire with how angry he is, riled and defensive and hating the look of wrathful betrayal on Washington's face.

"You are going to fix this," Washington seethes. His crowding proximity is making Alexander's face heat, even as his words raise Alexander's ire to a fever pitch.

"All due respect, _sir_ , but no I'm fucking not." And then Hamilton does something monumentally stupid. Something pointless and thoughtless and damn near unthinkable. He presses his palms to Washington's broad chest and _shoves_ , like a kid picking a fight on the playground.

Washington barely sways, firmly as he's planted, but his eyes widen. Hamilton immediately sees the tactical error of what he's done, the supernova of Washington's strained temper flashing brighter than he's ever seen. But even if he had a mind to apologize, there's no time. Washington is already reacting to the provocation. He grabs Alexander's wrists in both his hands, twisting and shoving, pinning them to the wall to either side of his head. Sudden and shocking and fierce.

Alexander's breath punches out of him in a rush, and together they stand frozen. Staring at each other as the moment boils over into something dangerous and _different_ that threatens to immolate them both.

Just as suddenly as he grabbed hold, Washington lets go. Strong hands frame Alexander's face instead, and Washington claims his mouth in a kiss that's more violence than sex.

For all his startlement, Alexander doesn't fight. He's lightheaded from the tidal wave of _want_ that snakes through him, because _Washington is touching him_ , and the rough handling is making his blood sing. He doesn't wait to see if Washington will recover himself. No, as soon as Alexander's surprise fades, he arches his body deliberately against Washington's pinning weight. Challenge and invitation. He shivers with anticipation when Washington responds by crushing him harder against the wall, knocking him back and holding him in place.

When Washington's tongue sweeps aggressively across the seam of his lips, Alexander opens for him, submitting instantly and allowing him to simply _take_.

He refuses to be embarrassed about how desperately he's clinging, or how readily he finds himself pressing into every possessive touch, every place Washington holds on too hard. Those strong hands are restless, painting inevitable bruises along the skin beneath Alexander's clothes. Greedy and perfect, everything Alexander has been fantasizing about for far too long.

When Washington tugs his ponytail loose, he has barely an instant to register the feeling before firm fingers are twisting tight in his hair, yanking sharply enough to prick tears at the corners of Alexander's closed eyes.

He feels breathless and lost and drunk and frantic. Washington's mouth is brutal on his, drawing back to bite at his lower lip before pressing in hard once more, tongue thrusting past parted lips, filthy and forceful and suggestive of other intimacies.

Alexander's skin is hot. His blood is racing, his pulse a manic chaos. His cock is hard. Fuck, he's so hard he _aches_ , and he needs—

He _needs_ —

Washington's weight shifts against him, and suddenly there's a knee nudging between his legs. Washington's powerfully muscled thigh spreading him, taking his weight, shoving hard and high and exactly where Alexander needs it.

He doesn't mean to break from the kiss, but it's too much. His head snaps back on a helpless groan, and he would hit his head on the wall if Washington's hand weren't still fisted in the messy strands of his hair. Washington's thigh presses higher, trapping Alexander's aching cock against a solid line of heat.

Distantly he recognizes the matching nudge of Washington's erection against his hip, but it's a situation he barely notes past the mounting ache of his own urgent need. He ruts against Washington's thigh, accepting the offered friction. He rides the unyielding heat, straining towards a release he can't quite touch.

Washington jerks at his hair again, dragging his head back into position for a renewed assault of a kiss. Alexander whines into Washington's mouth, breathes a helpless moan around Washington's invading tongue. Maybe later he'll be embarrassed at sounding so pathetically hungry. For the moment he doesn't have the space in his head for self-consciousness. Washington is moving too, rutting against his hip, pressing harder between his thighs. Their bodies are an uncoordinated dance of arousal and urgency, anger and fire, passion and need.

When Washington releases his mouth it's with a growl, and a harder yank where he still has hold of Alexander's hair, dragging his head back and exposing his throat. Washington nuzzles along the vulnerable line of exposed skin before pressing his mouth to the rapid-fire panic of Alexander's pulse. It's a hard kiss, followed by the kind of biting, sucking warmth that tells him he'll see proof of this moment in the mirror tomorrow morning. Fucking hell, Washington is _marking him_ , is already choosing another spot, kissing visible claim into his skin.

Hamilton can barely breathe when Washington finally lets go of his hair to grasp him elsewhere. That enormous hand curls around his side before sliding lower, down his hip, squeezing the swell of his ass. Washington's grip tightens, urging him on, encouraging him to bear down harder. And it's so close, but it's not enough. Hamilton can't—he's so close and he _can't_ —

" _Sir_ ," he chokes, fingers twisting in the fabric of Washington's sleeve. He buries his face against Washington's shoulder, eyes stinging, whole body an inferno. "Sir, please, I need—"

" _No_." Washington jolts him against the wall with a thud, a particularly brutal thrust as he snarls the words right against the kiss-bruised skin of Alexander's throat. "You will come like this or you won't come at all." There's an avalanche of challenge and threat in the words even as he drags Alexander down harder against him, pins him all the more firmly to the wall.

Hamilton breathes a fractured sob into Washington's chest. He twines one arm up across broad shoulders and holds tight, thrusts his hips down, meets the press of Washington's leg. The edge is _so fucking close_ now. Washington's mouth is hot against his throat, not kissing him anymore, not coordinated enough. Just Washington's breath across his skin, as ragged and unsteady as Alexander's own efforts to draw enough air into his lungs.

Before he can beg again—and he's damn well _going_ to beg, for more, for Washington's hand, for anything to get him there—Washington reaches between them. He opens Hamilton's fly with deft fingers, and for an instant Alexander thinks the man has taken pity on him after all, is finally going to take him in hand and finish this. But Washington does no such thing. Instead he takes his hand away as soon as he's got Alexander's pants open, and Hamilton breathes a new sound, wounded and broken and shaking apart.

Then the hand that just unzipped his pants is touching his face, nudging his head back, tracing a thumb over his kiss-swollen lower lip. Alexander blinks his eyes open with difficulty. He finds Washington watching him with a look that could light up an entire city block.

Hamilton can't breathe. He can't speak. He can't do anything but part his lips when Washington's thumb presses harder. A moment later and Washington's middle and index fingers are there instead, slipping inside his mouth, pressing almost deep enough to choke him.

A violent shiver of anticipation runs the length of Alexander's spine, and he obeys the implicit command. Closes his lips around the long digits, closes his eyes as he sucks at Washington's fingers, slicks them, whimpers around them.

"Good boy," Washington breathes. The praise makes him whimper again, and his cock rubs down with a stutter where he still strains helplessly against Washington's thigh. "Get them as wet as you can."

And Hamilton does. Fuck, he can do this. He can be good, he can make Washington proud, _earn_ the completion just out of reach.

Then Washington's fingers slip from his mouth. An instant later and he reaches behind Hamilton, slick touch sneaking down the back of his pants, past the waistband of his boxer briefs. Washington gives him no other warning before those long fingers push inside him.

Alexander's lungs empty on a sharp cry at the vivid sensation, the stretch of reluctant muscle as Washington's fingers slide deeper. The discomfort is drowned out almost entirely by a frantic surge of pleasure, and Alexander realizes distantly that he's begging again, lost and shattered and pleading for more.

Washington doesn't silence him with words, but rather with a crooking of the fingers deep inside Alexander's body. The gesture lights sparks behind his eyes and along his nerves. Fucking _fuck_ , leave it to George goddamn Washington to know exactly how to touch him. Hamilton's words stop with a shudder and a choked-off cry. His tight grip is wrinkling the hell out of Washington's shirt and suit jacket, and he doesn't care for an instant.

Washington's mouth is at his throat again, teeth digging into the sensitive skin beneath his jaw—biting just hard enough to sting—just hard enough to tell Hamilton who he belongs to. Hamilton sobs into the collar of Washington's shirt. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , if he was close before, he's right at the edge now. Between the thigh he's riding, the sting of teeth at this throat, the fingers spearing him open and brushing against his prostate—

The wave of sensation crests inside him, and Alexander comes so hard he loses track of the world.

He doesn't _think_ he passes out, but it's a long time before he resurfaces. Still in Washington's arms, still with Washington's fingers intimate inside him. Washington's cock is still hard against his hip. They're both standing perfectly motionless.

Well. _Washington_ is standing. Hamilton is only upright because he's wedged securely between the wall and Washington's body. He's collapsed like a rag doll against Washington's chest. He's still spread astride the strong thigh between his legs, uncomfortably sticky beneath his clothes. He's achy and overstimulated, and Washington's fingers inside him are becoming distinctly uncomfortable.

But Alexander can't bring himself to speak, or to try and move out of Washington's hold. He's not ready to look him in the eye. He's shaking, exhausted, and he is abruptly and wildly aware of what they've just done. What _he's_ done. What Washington has done to him.

Washington isn't moving either, and the stillness suddenly feels far too meaningful. They're both winded, breathing hard, lungfuls of air that do nothing to settle the rising uncertainty in Alexander's chest. His eyes are open, but he's not looking at anything beyond the dark fabric of Washington's suit. He can't get enough air.

He closes his eyes and tries to match his breathing to the rise and fall of Washington's chest, the slowly steadying rhythm of Washington's hot breath gusting over his neck.

"S—" he starts, but his voice cracks and he has to try again. "Sir?" The word comes out this time, but Hamilton still sounds breathless and wrong. Shattered. He is suddenly terrified of what he's going to find on Washington's face. This would be easier if he had any idea at all what to expect, but he honestly didn't see this coming. He doesn't want to think Washington would take such liberties only to reject him, but he can't shake the idea that it's going to happen anyway.

Washington draws a long, shuddering breath and then—obviously trying to be gentle—withdraws his fingers from Hamilton's ass. Despite the obvious care of the movement, Alexander hisses at the discomfort. He bites his lip to quiet himself, but he isn't fast enough to prevent the sound entirely, and Washington's whole body stiffens.

Washington's cock is still a hard line against Alexander's hip, but he makes no move to do anything about it. Alexander wonders if he should offer to help—if Washington wants his hand or maybe his mouth—but he's too strung out to find the words. At the moment all he's managing to do is _hold on_ , an inconvenience Washington doesn't protest as he steadies Hamilton with his hands.

The silence between them stretches into an agonized eternity.

Eventually Washington eases his leg from between Hamilton's thighs. He backs off a little without letting go—without going so far that Hamilton has to let go of _him_ —and Alexander can feel how bright red his own face is. He still can't meet Washington's eyes. He keeps staring at his shoulder instead, even though he can sense Washington watching him now. Assessing. Heavy.

"Are you all right?" Washington asks in a voice that might sound calm if it weren't for the rumble of unaccustomed gravel. Despite the audible evidence of arousal, there's a hint of genuine worry beneath the words.

"I— Yes." Hamilton raises his eyes and finds himself transfixed by Washington's piercing stare. He catches his own lower lip between his teeth and swallows thickly. "You didn't hurt me."

Washington's eyes dip to Alexander's mouth—obviously unintentional—then flicker guiltily up again. There's regret in his expression. Self-reproach in the wake of both anger and passion.

Alexander feels steady enough now to ask, "Do you want me to—?"

"No," Washington cuts him off, quick and firm. He takes his hands off of Hamilton and retreats two steps, drops his gaze to the side as Alexander catches his own weight on unsteady legs.

Hamilton wants to ask, _are you sure_? He wants a different answer, wants to know what Washington tastes like heavy on his tongue. They've come this far. Doesn't he deserve the chance to offer some pleasure in return? But Washington's shoulders are rigid despite the fact that his cock is still visibly straining the fitted fabric of his pants, and Hamilton knows better than to approach.

He doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know what to _say_. He feels fucked out and confused, frozen where he leans against the wall.

Washington's throat works in a visible swallow. "I'm sorry."

Alexander stares, stricken. An apology is the last thing he wants, even if some rational corner of his mind recognizes that he deserves one. Washington would have stopped if Hamilton told him to—there's no doubt in Alexander's mind—but he didn't exactly seek permission before taking Alexander apart.

Fuck, he probably looks like Washington just kicked him in the stomach, but he can't seem to reconfigure his expression.

Washington is meeting Alexander's eyes now, barely, but those broad shoulders are rigid as he turns away a moment later. "Don't look at me like that." There's a pause, a swallow, and Washington sounds uncharacteristically gruff when he says, "I'll get started on the paperwork tonight, and talk to HR tomorrow about a new assignment for you. Considering how public you made this debacle with Charles, a transfer isn't likely to raise any eyebrows." He makes for his desk with purpose, spine straight and footsteps determined.

It's enough to jar Hamilton into motion, and he darts forward.

"You can't do that!" He crosses the room in a rush. " _Sir_!" Another step and he puts himself directly between Washington and the desk, facing his boss down with all the stubbornness he possesses. There's not enough space, and he finds himself leaning hard against the edge of the desk with Washington crowded too close. There's nothing looming or threatening in his proximity this time. Just chance, the fact that Hamilton moved too quickly and didn't give him enough time to stop.

It's heartening that Washington doesn't immediately retreat.

Silence stretches between them. It's a staring contest—a matching of obstinate wills—and Hamilton wishes like hell he could guess what's going on in Washington's mind. He's good at arguing his case when he has enough information to ground himself, but at the moment he's got nothing. All he can see in Washington's countenance is the stubborn corner of guilt glinting through an otherwise unbreakable poker face.

"You _didn't hurt me_ ," he repeats, softer but no less emphatic.

The hardness of Washington's expression breaks just a little. "That doesn't absolve me of wrongdoing."

Hamilton bites his tongue because, much as he wants to argue otherwise, logic and reason aren't on his side. Washington is right. Maddeningly, technically, morally… _Washington is right_. It doesn't matter how long Alexander has been desperate for this. In the eyes of God and HR, this is a catastrophe of employer misconduct.

Alexander straightens his spine and meets Washington's stare with blatant defiance. "Fine. Then _I_ absolve you." He pauses only long enough to draw a breath, to raise a shiver of anticipation between them. "And if you'll stop playing the stoic martyr for a second, I'd be happy to repay the favor however you like."

A flash of hunger is followed by a strained expression on Washington's face. "Son—"

"Don't call me that." Hamilton glares. Of all the things Washington calls him, _son_ is the one he hates most. He hates it even more than usual in the wake of everything they've just done, the memory of Washington's hands and mouth, the sticky discomfort beneath his mussed clothes. "Don't patronize me when I'm offering to get you off."

Washington stands taller and thins his mouth into a hard line. There's a visible battle warring across his heavy brow. It's a long time before he finally speaks again, and when he does his voice is low and tight.

"You should go home. We'll talk about this tomorrow when we've both cooled off."

"Fuck no," Hamilton retorts. "If I go home now, you'll ship me off to Chicago before I can set foot back in the building."

"I promise not to send you to the Chicago office."

"I'm _not leaving_." With conscious effort, Hamilton smoothes the ruffled confrontation from his tone, lets his own expression soften into something considering. Lets the _want_ show through the vestiges of his anger. He takes a chance and reaches up to hook his fingers in the lapels of Washington's suit jacket and gives an almost playful tug. "Come on, old man. I'm good with my hands. I'm even better with my mouth."

Washington's breath hitches, and Alexander bites his own lower lip to keep from smiling as imminent victory suffuses his blood. He can't quite contain the pleased hum when Washington's hands rise to bracket his hips, fingers spreading wide and warm, anchoring him to the desk.

"You've thought about it, haven't you?" Hamilton slides his hands from Washington's jacket to the smooth knot of his boss's tie and begins to loosen it meaningfully. "Putting me on my knees right here in this office? Have you ever come imagining my mouth around your cock?"

The sound Washington makes is barely audible, but Alexander hears it, the quiet strangled wanting noise at the back of his throat. He sees the way Washington's pupils have dilated at his blunt questions.

He resists the urge to grin. When he finishes untying the sleek necktie, he reels Washington toward him by the loose ends, so that he can murmur directly in his ear. "There aren't a whole lot of ways to shut me up. You really gonna pretend you haven't thought about this one?"

His words have an instantaneous effect: Washington moves against him, shifts his hands from Hamilton's hips to crush him close, and takes his mouth in a bruising kiss. Alexander's eyes close at the onslaught, fingers twisting in the fabric of Washington's shirt, lips parting for the possessive thrust of his tongue.

Washington is a live wire, sparking heat with every touch, restless and hungry. There's no space between their bodies as he holds Hamilton pinned to the edge of the desk—and no evidence either that Washington's interest has waned. He's still hard with arousal, and Alexander thrills to feel that hard heat pressed low against his belly.

He scrounges enough coordination to fumble at the stiff collar of Washington's shirt. He undoes the topmost buttons, letting his thumbs brush bare skin at the base of Washington's throat.

Alexander whines an undignified noise of protest when the kiss breaks and Washington's hands fall away. Washington doesn't back off, but the way he stops _touching_ Alexander is bad enough. An instant later and Washington presses his palms to the surface of the desk on either side of Alexander's hips. Still crowding him, breath hot on the side of his jaw.

"Why are you stopping?" Hamilton asks, and he hates how helpless he sounds. Gone is his self-assured bravado, eradicated by the need for Washington to put him in his place.

Washington draws back just far enough to look him in the eye. "I'm still angry at you." He is. There's no mistaking it, no misinterpreting the flash of something dangerous behind the obvious and mounting warmth of Washington's expression. "And what you're offering… I don't think that's a good idea right now."

"You think a little rough handling's gonna scare me off?" Considering how hard he just came under Washington's control—how much Washington seemed to enjoy manhandling him against the wall—it's a ridiculous notion. Alexander has always loved being held down in bed. He's giddy at the thought of wearing Washington's bruises tomorrow; he doesn't need to be treated gently now.

Washington hesitates. "Alexander—"

"I'm just saying." Fuck, he wants this, and he doesn't care how desperate he sounds. "I don't mind being knocked around a little where orgasms are involved. You don't have to hold back on my account."

" _Alexander_." Still a protest, but this time it comes with a fresh surge of warmth.

"Go ahead. You're pissed off. I'm not sorry. So why don't you fucking _do_ something about it?" Washington is staring at him, but Hamilton doesn't back down. "You want to punish me? Put me on my knees? Fuck my face so hard I can't breathe? Fucking _do it_ then. I want you to."

"Jesus, Alexander." Washington is staring at his mouth now. Good.

"You want to force your cock down my throat so far I choke on it," Hamilton says, making it sound like an idle observation, a careless game. When he started this line of attack, he was hoping, guessing. Now he's sure. One hundred percent certain that Washington wants him like this. Wants to hold him down and claim him. "You want to hold me still and watch me fight for air. Make a complete mess of me. Make me take it."

Washington's eyes have fluttered shut. Alexander shivers, and delivers the final damning blow.

"I'm pretty when I cry."

Washington groans and his whole body rocks forward, jostling Alexander against the edge of the desk.

Washington's voice is ragged when he says, "I don't keep condoms in the office."

"I'm clean," Hamilton retorts. "Are you?" Irresponsible—downright fucking stupid—but he wants this. He trusts Washington to be truthful, knows Washington trusts him. Alexander would never lie about something like this, and he knows straight down to his soul that Washington wouldn't either.

" _Yes_." Washington takes his hands off the desk and sets them heavily on Hamilton's shoulders. Meets his eyes. Forces him down.

Alexander lands heavily on his knees, keeping his gaze locked on Washington the entire way to the floor. He's trapped between Washington and the desk, mouth watering with anticipation, heart tripping too fast. He's giddy at the borderline painful grip of Washington's fingers holding him down. He doesn't break his gaze away now that he's here. He's all hungry defiance and burning impatience. He fucking _wants_.

Washington lets go of his shoulders without looking away, and Alexander licks his lips, grins at the sharp inhale the gesture earns him.

One of Washington's hands rises to the edge of the desk, bracing against the smooth, sturdy surface. The other he curls around the side of Alexander's head, twining fingers through messy hair and gripping hard enough to assert unmistakable dominance.

Stillness and silence hold between them for a long time, until Washington asks in a deliciously steady voice, "Well? What are you waiting for?"

It's a trap, and Hamilton doesn't care. A tremor runs the length of his spine as he reaches for Washington's fly. He considers cupping the obvious bulge beneath the fine fabric of Washington's suit, but he thinks better of it. His hand isn't what's on offer here. He unzips Washington's fly efficiently, tugs pants and briefs down far enough for the long, hard length of his cock to slip free.

Fuck. Alexander was already salivating, but this is ridiculous. He's never been so desperate to taste anything in his life. He curls his hands around Washington's thighs and leans in, mouth open, lips closing around the head.

For just an instant he has the illusion of control. Then Washington's grip tightens in his hair and yanks him inexorably forward, forcing Alexander farther along the length of his cock. Alexander drops his jaw and relaxes his throat. He's ready for this, for the hot nudge at the back of his throat, the challenge of suppressing his gag reflex and swallowing. All the way down, until his nose is pressed to Washington's belly and his jaw is being forced wide, until he can't breathe for how deeply Washington's cock is filling his throat.

He's meeting the wide warmth of Washington's eyes as he falls still—as Washington holds him there—forceful touch making it impossible to retreat. There's so much command in this simple gesture, so much strength in Washington's touch. The feelings igniting in Alexander's chest are wild and complicated, and he pushes them away in favor of more tangible sensations. The thick weight on his tongue. The sting at his scalp. The difficulty of holding himself perfectly still as want of air quickly becomes an issue.

Washington holds him almost too long—long enough that Alexander feels himself beginning to stir and struggle despite his best efforts to behave—and the edges of his vision are going a little fuzzy by the time Washington drags him back. He pulls Hamilton all the way off his cock, allowing him to gasp for ragged lungfuls of air. Washington allows this for only a moment before steering him right back down, jerking him close and filling him once again with that unrelenting length.

Hamilton isn't as ready for it this time. He gags and chokes as Washington forces him into the same position, forces him to take every inch. His eyes squeeze shut and tears prick at the corners from the onslaught of sensation. He aches deliciously, struggling to ground himself even as his chest spasms with every failed attempt to breathe.

He manages to open his eyes again, and he raises them to stare straight up at Washington's face from his position on his knees, used and choking and giddy with the thrill of being _taken_.

The look on Washington's face is new and gorgeous. It's absolutely terrifying, pure fire and something more. Something fierce and greedy that raises violent heat beneath Alexander's skin. A moment later Washington rolls his hips forward, even though his fully sheathed cock can't possibly force its way deeper. Alexander chokes harder as his head knocks back against the edge of the desk, the impact softened by the painful grip in his hair. His eyes are properly watering now. He still can't breathe.

This time when Washington draws out, he actually gives Hamilton _time_. To inhale, to swallow, to regain some semblance of control over himself, before dragging him roughly forward once more.

There's no stillness this time. No, this time Washington bottoms out for a fleeting instant before rocking his hips back and fucking forward again. Does it a second time. A third. All to the noisy accompaniment of Hamilton choking wetly on every thrust.

Washington sets a brutal rhythm. He takes his other hand off the desk to curl around the base of Alexander's skull. Both hands, better leverage with which to use his mouth, fucking his face, shoving deep over and over again. Alexander gasps around each sliver of retreat, lungs burning as he fights for every scrap of air. He gags on each violent forward thrust. His jaw aches, and he struggles to swallow around the unpredictable rhythm as Washington's cock forces its way repeatedly down his throat.

Hamilton's tears are really falling now. His cheeks are wet, and he tastes salt alongside the intoxicating bitterness of precome.

He's not looking at Washington anymore. Even when his eyes are open, he's too lost, too overwhelmed. He can't see anything clearly through the unceasing blur of his own tears.

He's never felt so alive in his life.

He knows the effect he's having on Washington. He can tell from the ragged tempo of his breathing—when he can hear anything at all past the wet, devastated sounds emitting from his own throat—and from the way Washington's hips are already beginning to falter in their rhythm, unsteady now but no less brutal for it. He can feel it in the restless hold of Washington's hands, fingers twisting and tightening in his hair, grip constantly shifting.

It can't last forever, however much Alexander might wish. Eventually Washington shudders and forces Alexander's face to his belly, stilling with his cock buried deep down his throat. He comes with a wild groan, and Alexander swallows because there's nothing else he can do. He clutches at Washington's muscled thighs, grateful as he accepts what Washington is making him take.

When Washington withdraws, cock softening, Alexander tries instinctively to follow. But Washington still has him by the hair, and he holds Hamilton firmly in place.

"Enough, Alexander." Washington is panting, chest rising and falling hard when Hamilton blinks through his tears to look up. "That's enough."

Hamilton subsides and Washington's touch gentles, smoothing through his hair now, petting him like something cherished. Hamilton's knees hurt, his jaw aches. His throat feels fucked out and raw.

Perfect.

He licks his lips, chasing Washington's lingering taste with his tongue. Then he swipes the back of his hand across his face, wiping away the worst of the slick mess Washington has made of him. Closes his eyes and swallows.

Quick as a heartbeat Washington drops to his knees. He tugs Hamilton into his lap, dragging him forward into a rough kiss, fucking his tongue into Alexander's well-used mouth, crushing him close. One hand drops between them, slipping past Alexander's open fly, and oh—fucking _oh_ —he's hard again. He's not sure when that happened, but he moans helplessly into the kiss as Washington touches him more surely.

It's almost painful, coming so hard, so soon after his first orgasm. His whole body trembles with the force of it, and Washington stops kissing him just in time for Alexander to cry aloud, wild and overwhelmed.

At least he doesn't black out this time. Small miracles. He collapses against Washington's chest, more pleased than he cares to admit at the stroking of gentle fingers through the now sweaty strands of his hair. Fuck, he's a complete mess. How is he supposed to take his usual train home, looking and feeling like this?

He straightens eventually, and finds a surprisingly soft smile on Washington's face.

A moment later Washington's thumb traces across his cheek, wiping a path through the salty wet of the tears Alexander promised him.

"You're right," Washington says. "You're _very_ pretty when you cry."

Hamilton stifles a groan, and his eyes flutter closed as he nuzzles against Washington's hand. He considers getting up from the floor—god his knees ache—but he's not yet ready to give up this intimacy. Washington seems content to allow Hamilton in his space, to let the moment stretch comfortably between them. If he's still pissed about Charles Lee, and he probably is, there's nothing in his manner now to suggest he's thinking about that.

Alexander's eyes are still closed when Washington kisses him, impossibly gently. A different sort of exploration. This kiss carries a soft edge that doesn't fit with the anger that brought them here. Some fucked up skittish instinct beneath Hamilton's skin wants to protest the unmistakable tenderness of the kiss, but he stubbornly tells that instinct to shut up and enjoy the moment. It's a _nice_ moment, even if it is coming out of left field.

The kiss ends, and he finds Washington staring at his mouth. A strangely tentative thumb traces over Hamilton's reddened and swollen lower lip.

"Did you enjoy yourself, Alexander?"

"God yes," he breathes without delay, his voice sore and rough with gravel. " _Yes_ , that was… Fuck, sir, I wasn't sure you had it in you."

Washington cracks half a smile, trailing his fingers down Hamilton's throat. "Weren't you?"

"I hoped—" He blushes, swallows, isn't sure why _now_ is the moment he suddenly feels self-conscious. "I imagined— Fantasized about you touching me that way. But you're always so…" He trails off, not sure if he should say it.

"What am I?" Washington presses when he doesn't finish the thought.

"In control," Alexander breathes, honest and lost. "I've never seen you lose it like that. I didn't know you could." He doesn't just mean the blow job, though that was glorious enough. He means everything before, every moment of Washington shoving him against the wall and taking him apart.

Washington's expression clouds faintly. "I don't generally _like_ to lose control."

"What about tonight?" He manages to keep his tone light even though his heart is a pulp of nervous feeling in his chest. "You gonna pretend you _didn't_ enjoy pushing me around?"

"No," Washington concedes. "I'm not enough of a hypocrite to deny it now."

Hamilton grins. "You liked holding me down."

"Yes." The cloud cover is gradually passing from Washington's brow, leaving something easier in its wake.

"Enough to do it again?"

Washington looks immediately reticent, despite the intimate position they're in. Uncertain of his answer. So Alexander takes a gamble. He twines both arms around Washington's shoulders and kisses him again, firm and confident. Trying his damnedest to convey without words that yes, he knows what he's asking. Yes, he _means it_. 

There's a moment before Washington responds—a moment where Hamilton genuinely fears he's fucked something up—and even though it's only a matter of seconds, it echoes in his mind like an eternity. Before he can retreat, Washington moves. Circles Alexander's waist with both arms and tugs him more firmly into place on Washington's lap, tighter against his chest. Accepting the kiss. Taking command of it with reassuring vigor.

When Hamilton draws back he finds Washington watching him. Considering. Patient.

"Is this really what you want?" Washington asks. Soft voice, soft question, nothing at all like the show of power and strength he unleashed tonight. Caution in the wake of his explosive temper.

"Sir, I've wanted you to touch me since the day I was hired."

"Charming as that is," Washington counters wryly, "it doesn't answer my question."

Hamilton's brow furrows in confusion. "Sir?"

Washington looks distinctly like he's suppressing a sigh. "This was a mistake. There's no pretending otherwise. I behaved… badly." His tone makes it clear he considers this an understatement. "I might be inclined to repeat my mistakes, but only if it's really what you want."

Hamilton opens his mouth to speak, but Washington stops him with a look, a single raised eyebrow. No one else has ever shut him up so easily.

"A purely physical relationship would be complicated enough," Washington murmurs. "But I think we both know that's not all this is."

Hamilton's mouth is uncomfortably dry when, against every noisy instinct to obfuscate and protect himself, he admits, "No. It's not."

"Then let's try again: is this really what you want, Alexander?"

Hamilton's heart kicks into high gear. He is absolutely terrified as he answers, "Yes."

For several seconds he thinks Washington will keep arguing with him. Maybe this is an impasse after all. Maybe Alexander has just bared his naked soul for nothing. The idea makes him ache.

But finally Washington nods, short and decisive. "Okay."

Then he's pushing Hamilton aside, standing, ignoring the winded expression of relief on his employee's face as he rounds the desk. Hamilton scrambles upright, hovering uncertainly nearby. Watching Washington across the tidy surface of the desk.

"Really?" he asks, not quite trusting his ears.

"Have you ever known me to be less than sincere?" Washington counters smoothly, and the argument is unassailable. "I'll still need to consult HR about finding you a new position."

"What? _Why_?"

Washington locks him in an incredulous look. "For God's sake, Alexander, what choice do I have?"

"You could let me stay right here where I belong!"

Washington considers his words for a long time. When he speaks, it's soft and decisive, and leaves no room for debate. "My behavior toward you already borders on criminal. The fact that I own this firm puts you in an untenable position no matter how we move forward. The authority I have, the need for secrecy… those are bad enough. I _will not_ carry on an affair with an employee who answers directly to me."

He says it so bluntly, with such clinical precision, but the word ignites heat beneath Hamilton's skin anyway. _Affair_. That's what this is. A secret for them to keep. A dangerous understanding between them.

"Oh," is all he says. It's the closest he will come to conceding the point aloud. He doesn't _want_ a different job, but he can see where Washington is coming from. The trouble Washington will be in if anyone finds out what they've done—what they intend to _continue doing_ for the foreseeable future—will be even worse if Hamilton stays in his current position. If this is a nonnegotiable condition of what he and Washington are starting… Yeah, Hamilton will deal.

"Come on." Washington finishes scheduling an appointment with HR and then shuts down his computer. Buttons his shirt collar, fixes his tie. He's already zipped his fly back up, though Hamilton's not sure when that happened. "It's late. I'll give you a ride home."

Hamilton, blindsided and flummoxed, fixes his own clothes—gathers his things—and follows Washington out the door.


End file.
